That Saturday came, other Saturdays came, and I ended up developing a liking for my new life. I alternated between home and the seminary. The priests liked me, the boys too, and Escobar more than the boys or the priests. At the end of five weeks, I was on the point of telling him of my troubles and hopes; Capitu held me back.
“Escobar is my very good friend, Capitu!”
“By he’s not my friend.”
“He may be in time; he’s already said to me that he wants to come here to meet Mamma.”
“It doesn’t matter; you have no right to tell a secret that is not only yours, but mine too, and I give you permission to tell no one.”
She was right; I kept quiet and obeyed. Another matter in which I complied with her ideas was on the first Saturday, when I went to her house, and, after some minutes of conversation, she advised me to leave.
“Don’t stay any longer today; go home, and I’ll come over soon. It’s only natural that Dona Glória will want to be with you for a long time, or for the whole time if she can.”
In all this my companion gave evidence of such clear thinking that there is almost no need for me to cite a third example, but what are examples for but citing, and this is such a good one that it would be a crime to omit it. It was on my third or fourth visit home. My mother, after I had replied to a thousand questions about the way I was treated, my studies, my friendships, the discipline, and if anything was hurting, if I was sleeping well, everything that a mother’s tenderness can invent to try the patience of her son, ended by turning to José Dias:
“Sr. José Dias, can you still doubt that a good priest will come out of this?”
“And you, Capitu,” interrupted my mother, turning to Pádua’s daughter, who was in the room with her, “don’t you think that our Bentinho will make a good priest?”
“I think so, madam,” replied Capitu, full of conviction.
I did not approve of her conviction. I told her so, the next morning, in her yard, reminding her of the words of the previous day, and confronting her for the first time with the happiness she had shown since my going to the seminary, while I was tormented with longing. Capitu became very serious, and asked how I would have her act, seeing they suspected us; she too had had disconsolate nights, and the days in her house were as sad as mine; I could go and ask her father and mother. Her mother had gone as far as to tell her, indirectly, that she should give up all thought of me.
“With Dona Glória and Dona Justina of course I put on a happy face, so that José Dias’ accusation doesn’t seem true. If it did seem true, they would try to separate us more, and maybe would even go so far as exclude me from the house … For me, the oath we swore that we will marry one another is enough.”
That was it; we had to dissemble, so as to kill off any suspicions, and at the same time enjoy all our former liberty, to build our future with confidence. But the example is completed by what I heard the next day, at lunch; my mother, when Uncle Cosme said that he wanted to see what kind of figure I would make blessing the people at mass, recounted that some days before, speaking about girls marrying young, Capitu had said to her: “Well, the one who’ll marry me will be Father Bentinho; I’ll wait till he’s ordained!” Uncle Cosme laughed, José Dias consented to smile, and only cousin Justina raised her eyebrows, and looked at me questioningly. Though I had looked at them all, I could not withstand cousin Justina’s look, and tried to eat. But I could hardly swallow; I was so contented with Capitu’s great deceit that I could think of nothing else, and as soon as I had eaten, ran to tell her about the conversation and praise her guile. Capitu smiled gratefully.
“You’re right, Capitu,” I concluded; “we’re going to hoodwink them all.”
“Won’t we just?” she said ingenuously.